


i saw him down by a river

by OfShoesAndShips



Series: those of us who are lost and low [1]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfShoesAndShips/pseuds/OfShoesAndShips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how John Childermass, not-quite-nineteen year old ex-thief, met the magician Gilbert Norrell. </p><p>(Also pulled from my JSMN Prompt Fics thing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i saw him down by a river

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING for attempted suicide.

 

The wind is cold, but he does not notice. He kicks his heels against the stone of the bridge and stares down at the foaming of the river, shuffling his cards in his hands. He flips the top card - a skeleton stares up at him and he laughs, a harsh, dry sound. Tears do not prick at his eyes, but he shakes - he feels like glass, about to crack apart. He neatens his cards into a stack and presses his lips to the edge before putting them on the wall beside him.

 

It is only, he thinks, a simple matter. A formality, almost. He swallows, breathes out, breath scraping along the glass in his lungs, his throat.

 

Perhaps hanging would have been quicker - but these are the King’s waters. It is the King’s air he is breathing, the King’s bridge he sits on - all around him he can feel the press of wings.

 

And if he must condemn himself to any’s care, he would rather it be his King’s.

 

He breathes in again. Breathes out.

 

The water is cold. He does not notice.

 

\--

 

He wakes coughing on the bank, the dank taste of the river in his mouth. His ears ring and someone is shouting at him, though he cannot hear it clearly through the water in his ears.

 

“What-;” he whispers, before he is wracked with another bout of coughing, spitting what seems like gallons of water into the mud.

 

 A warm hand touches his shoulder and then takes his arm, pulling him up to his feet and steadying him when his legs start trembling.

 

“You stupid fool,” the person says, though with only softness in their voice, and it takes Childermass a moment to realise what it is he’s seeing.

 

A man not much older than himself, in the uniform of a coachman - though his coat and shoes are missing and he is completely soaked through - his eyes full of concern, his expression almost trembling. The man’s hand tightens on his shoulder and the expression steadies into one of gentle sternness.

 

“Come on, lad,” he says, “I’ll take you up to the house, you can warm up there.”

 

Childermass blinks at him.

 

“Lad?”

 

Childermass tries to speak, but can’t; he coughs until his eyes water and tries again, his voice sounding alien to his ears. “My cards,” he whispers, and the coachman looks at him blankly before comprehension dawns. 

“You left your things on the bridge, aye?”

 

“Aye,” he says, and the coachman pats his shoulder gently.

 

“You stay there, son, I’ll get your things. And then you’re coming up to the house to dry off.”

 

Childermass nods, and the coachman pats his shoulder again before heading to the bridge. Childermass looks around, blinking - even the low light of the evening is too much - and for the first time sees the carriage on the road, just before the bridge. The horses stand quietly and the curtains are drawn, and he cannot raise the curiosity to wonder at it before the coachman is back, pressing his cards into his hands.

 

“Here,” he says, and then picks his coat up from the ground to wrap it around Childermass’s shoulders. It overlaps at the front by far too much and the coachman’s expression begins to shake again. He lifts one hand and pushes the hair back from Childermass’s face, wiping the tears from the corner of his eyes with a thumb.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“John.”

 

The coachman smiles. “Good name, that. Lucky.”

 

Childermass does not smile. It doesn’t feel particularly lucky.

 

“I’m James,” he says, but Childermass is barely listening - he twists and turns his cards in his hands, shuffling them as he goes.

 

“Come on, then,” James says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “You can sit in the carriage for the time being and we’ll be up at the house in no time.”

 

James leads him slowly over to the carriage, and knocks on the door. It opens to reveal a small, washed-out man, his brows raised and his mouth open on a word than never makes itself heard.

 

“Lad had an accident and fell in the river, sir,” James says, “He needs seeing to and there’s no room up front for him-;”

 

The man gestures to the empty seat on the other side of the carriage. “He can stay in here for now, I suppose.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” says James, since Childermass lacks the energy to, and James steadies him as he climbs up into the carriage.

 

He sits as far from the man - the master, he supposes - as he can get, huddling himself up against the side. He feels exhausted and sick; he cannot, he suddenly realises, stop trembling.

 

The carriage starts moving and Childermass groans. He can feel the master’s eyes on him, but doesn’t look up.

 

“It will stop soon,” the master says, “My house is only a few more minutes away.”

 

Childermass does not speak and the silence stretches out, and out.

 

“S-sorry for putting you to so much trouble, sir,” Childermass says, very faintly, still not looking at him.

 

“You are sick and require a doctor - it would be unnecessarily cruel of me to leave you where you were.”

 

Childermass says nothing. “Most would,” he eventually mumbles.

 

It is another long moment before the master speaks again. “What’s your name?”

 

“John,” he says, “John Childermass.”

 

The carriage halts again and there comes the sound of creaking gates. The master smiles, small and thin and tight.

 

“Welcome to Hurtfew Abbey, Mr Childermass.”

 

 

==


End file.
